


Cauchemar

by despommes



Series: Moonbringer [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Nightmares, vague mention of self-harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-09-27 15:16:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20409889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/despommes/pseuds/despommes
Summary: There are things she sees in her dreams that she will not speak about.





	1. Recurring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This revolves around my SMN Keeper of the Moon Miqo'te, Artemesia Andromeda and follows my previous stories, A Timeless Lullaby and Downpour. If you'd like to see a picture of her I have some [here](https://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com/tagged/artemesia+andromeda).

G’raha Tia has, to his knowledge, always been a light sleeper. Ever since he’d been a babe, his mother used to tell him, he was quick to wake at any stray sound or sign of movement. In his youth he’d considered it somewhat a boon as he would often forgo sleep in the pursuit of knowledge. Countless sleepless nights had he spent pouring over ancient scripts during his time at Baldesion, and yet every morning he would rise eager and bursting with restless energy. Age had somewhat stifled that in him, though at times he still surprised himself. In recent days he sleeps more than he has in centuries, much to Lyna’s palpable relief. It was much easier to surrender himself to the mercy of repose with the promise of a warm and capable body beside him.

Artemesia, on the other hand, tended to sleep like the veritable dead. Raised by the light of the moon and stars like so many of her people, she took on a diurnal lifestyle for the benefit of her companions and was loathe to be woken before she was ready. Her contempt to be roused before sunrise, even as often as was the case living an adventurer’s lifestyle, bordered upon infamous. With all the years she’d spent rising by the sun, it was often still difficult to deny her body its natural nocturnal rhythms. And so the first time G’raha wakes to find her missing beside him, he thinks little of it.

Much of her day had been spent in the Hortorium helping with the construction of new hydroponics structures. They’d fascinated her in her early days on the First, and Yalana was quick to capitalize on her zeal for plant-rearing. G’raha had expected her to be exhausted that evening when they retired to her room, and so she had seemed when she finally fell asleep in his arms. He had been quick to follow suit.

A sound had gently pulled him back into the waking world. The creak of settling furniture, or the shutting of a neighboring door, he couldn’t be sure. But Artemesia’s side of their bed had been cold and empty, and a sharp note of panic was quick to well behind his ribs. It was quickly dulled by reason as he gradually came to his senses. At the other side of the room she sat perched in a kitchen chair, one foot folded underneath her and the other dangling above the floor. Her journal lay open on the table and she was putting quill to paper, a mug of tea steaming beside her hand. She’d lit a candle.

“Sleep eluding you?” he asks softly. Her ears swivel at the sound of his voice and her eyes quickly find him in the low light. She gives him a weak, tired smile.

“Yes.” Her fingers relinquish her quill and she reaches for her tea. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”

“Admittedly, it takes very little to wake me.” G’raha pulls away the blankets to stand, pads his way across the floor to where she sits. The hour is late, nearly late enough to be called early. Artemesia hums contentedly as he bends to kiss her temple. “Is there aught left in the way of tea?”

“The rest of the pot.” She tilts her head to the kettle on the stove. He pours a cup for himself, inhales the gentle aroma. Chamomile. The warmth soaking into his palms helps to drive away the chill left from the vacant side of the mattress, though he still feels uneasy for her. She looks exhausted in the dim candlelight. Dark bags weigh heavily under eyes that carry a worn, haunted look to them. Her fingers tremble against the pages of her journal.

“Is something the matter?” He keeps his voice level, soothing. “You seem rather shaken.”

Artemesia breathes a weary sigh, scrubs a hand over her face. “An unwelcome dream. A recurring one that I’ve had since I was a girl.”

“Tell me?” he asks gently, as though the question might frighten her away. “Perhaps it may help to ease your mind.”

For several minutes, she says nothing. The quiet settles hushed around them, he leaning against the kitchen counter with his tea and she folded smally into her chair. She rarely speaks of her early childhood, and what he knows of it is shadowed by the loss of her mother. G’raha is fully prepared for her to decline his offer, resigned to leaving it at that, when she clears her throat.

“When we lived in the jungles near Wineport,” she begins, and her voice cracks, “when mama got sick, I had to start hunting on my own. So we could eat. Papa couldn’t do it, not with his hearing. And he needed to be home with mama, to look after her.”

G’raha holds his breath. His fingers tighten around his cup.

“One night, before I left, I heard him crying. She had stopped talking that day. Everytime we had to wake her up to feed her or give her medicine it was harder and harder. I think he had thought I was already gone or something, because I don’t think he would have cried like that if he’d known I was there. He wept like… he was dying with her. I ran out of the house, as fast as I could, and I know he felt the door slam. I still feel guilty about that.”

G’raha sets down his tea. He goes to her, touches her cheek with his hand. Artemesia leans her head against his stomach and he gently cards his fingers through her hair.

“I hid in this little rocky outcrop, behind some trees. I stayed there all night and cried. It was like I was frozen. All I could think about was that my mother was going to die and we were going to be alone in that jungle, for the rest of our lives. And when I came home I had nothing to bring back with me. Papa tried to make soup but we had nothing, and we still went to sleep hungry.” Her fingers clutch at the soft cotton of his sleep shirt. “I told him I was sorry, over and over, and he kept shaking his head and insisting it was not my fault. He apologized to _ me _ and it felt horrible.”

It genuinely bruises his heart to think of a man as gentle and loving as Tsimh’a caught in such a tide of grief, doubly so to think of Artemesia awash in it as a child. “My love,” he whispers to her, “I am so, _ so _ sorry.”

“It was so long ago. Thinking of her barely even hurts anymore, but…” She takes a long, shuddering breath. “Sometimes I still dream that I’m stuck in that night. I’m still sitting behind those trees, watching the animals as they pass by me. I can’t move, I can’t speak. All I can do is cry and wish _ anything _ I did made a difference, while my father weeps over my mother’s dying body.”

G’raha holds her close. He is reminded, not for the first time, that there are scars on her heart that he will never be able to heal, that he has no claim to. While that is a hard truth to swallow there is much and more he would do to ease her pain.

Artemesia stands slowly from her chair, legs straightening so she can gently fold her arms around him. He touches his forehead to hers and kisses the bridge of her nose. At long last she smiles, a tiny thing. Her lips find his own in the dark and she sighs. She slips her tongue into his mouth and he makes a warbled, shocked noise.

“I don’t want to think about miserable things anymore tonight.” Spellcaster’s fingers tug hesitantly at the hem of his shirt. “Distract me? Please, Raha?”

“You’re sure?” he asks, because he needs to know, and she nods against his cheek.

“Help me sleep.” Her teeth drag against his bottom lip as she speaks. “Make me _ tired_.”

“Yes.”

His lips slide down her throat, drawn to her pulse where he places dry, fluttering kisses against her skin. Her head tilts back at his touch.

G’raha slowly coaxes her across the room and back against the mattress, still warm on his side. He makes slow, quiet love to her and does his best to banish the dream from their bed and from behind her eyes. Later, as she drifts slowly in his arms, he ghosts crystal fingers over the damp skin of her back.

“Wake me next time,” he whispers. “You needn’t suffer these nights alone.”

She nods sleepily against his chest. Nestles her face in at his collar bone. “Thank you.”

He kisses the top of her head. She is asleep within the next beat of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/despommess).


	2. Terror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This revolves around my SMN Keeper of the Moon Miqo'te, Artemesia Andromeda and follows my previous story, A Timeless Lullaby. If you'd like to see a picture of her I have some [here](https://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com/tagged/artemesia+andromeda).
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think!

There are some nights he still wakes in a bleary panic, half convinced he yet rises in the wake of a calamity. That cities have been razed to the ground, laws have been thrown to the wayside for survival, that the Warrior of Light is centuries dead. Taken from them far too young as he slept the years away, ignorant to tragedy and injustice. The murder of Hydaelyn’s champion had been so wrong, such an abomination of nature that he had taken it upon himself to _ rectify _ it. Yet that reality had still come to pass, and he is haunted by it.

When he does wake from that hellish memory, chest heaving and heart hammering against his ribs, she is there. Dreaming away at his side, her peaceful face a soothing sight to his frenzied mind. Occasionally he manages to wake her in his alarm. She sees his sweat damp hair, his wide eyes and pale skin, and she soothes him. Fingers trail over his brow as she sweeps his bangs away from his face, her lips cool against his cheek as she murmurs to him. “It was only a dream, Raha. I am right here.”

He clings to her in those moments. As though if he were to let her go this reality would slip through his fingers like so much loose sand. G’raha thanks every god he can think of, any willing to listen, for the warmth of her in his arms.

She herself is not without her own nightmares. He is brutally reminded of this on occasion. A quiet evening spent within the confines of the Tower. G’raha had been answering his mail at his desk in the Umbilicus, Artemesia lounging on the humble cot he kept against the wall. She is thumbing through book after heavy book with an uncharacteristic lack of focus, absentmindedly flipping through their pages without truly reading the words.

“I’ve had a new delivery of tomes,” he offers, guilty at having essentially ignored her for the majority of the afternoon. “Urianger sent them from his own collection. A few he thought would be of interest.”

She hums idly, snapping shut the volume in her hands. “You Sharlayans and your _ books_.” There is a note of fondness in the words that makes his ears twitch. “You needn’t fret over me, G’raha. I simply feel… a little uneasy.”

His mouth tenses in concern. “Is aught amiss?” he asks her, and she waves the question away with a blasé shake of her head.

“Just an off day. Nothing to worry about.”

Oh, but he did worry. She of all people is entitled to the odd “off day” here and there, but it was sometimes difficult to understand just what that entailed. Some days she is just a bit subdued, soft-spoken and reserved with friends and acquaintances she normally greets with warmth. Other days she avoids conversation and keeps to herself, attributes many would chalk up to typical Keeper broodiness. On particularly bad days, she hides. Much like he suspects she is doing now here in the Tower.

G’raha does not press her, as much as he wants to get to the bottom of her despondent mood. The time quietly passes them by, and when he is finally finished with his correspondence he looks up to find Artemesia sleeping soundly in his bed. His heart is relieved to see she found some respite from her melancholy in slumber.

Late as it has grown, he is loathe to wake her. Carefully, he climbs in beside her. The cot is rather small but they manage to fit well enough. She huffs a soft breath and nestles her head sweetly into the crook of his arm. G’raha smiles to himself as he tucks his nose into her hair and means to follow her to sleep.

He is halfway to dreaming when the first low sound creeps up from deep in her throat. It rouses him instantly. It is a chilling noise, one that raises every hair along his body. She begins to fret in his arms, and what had started out as a series of distressed groans was quickly escalating in volume and tone. Something was deeply wrong.

“Artemesia,” he whispers against her cheek, gently shaking her shoulder. She does not open her eyes. Her brow furrows at the sound of his voice and her lips twist into a pained grimace. Velveteen ears flatten against her skull as she tries to bury her face into the pillow. Artemesia opens her mouth, draws in a long, jagged breath and _ wails_.

It is a devastating sound. G’raha can feel it in his own throat, raw and anguished at the back of his tongue like burnt blood. His fingers flex against the urge to cover his ears. He has to wake her from whatever hell she sees behind her eyelids, but as he sits up to see her writhing against his sheets, he is at a loss for what to do.

Artemesia’s hands twist in her own clothes, the fabric straining in her grip as though it might rip under the stress. She sobs between aching breaths. Her voice rings out through the crystal walls of the tower, reverberating in the air around them like a tortured chorus. G’raha grits his teeth against the din. He grips at her shoulders. Shakes her where she lies.

“Artemesia, darling, wake up,” he begs her. He has to all but yell to hear himself over her cries. “It is only a dream, my love, just a dream. You have to wake up, _ please_.”

When she finally opens her eyes they are _ haunted_. Her pupils are little more than black pinpricks awash in twin seas of blue and lavender, and when her gaze falls on him he cannot even be sure she sees him. The screaming has stopped but now her breast heaves with her gasps for air. G’raha cradles her face in his hands. Tears spill fat and hot down her cheeks. Her hair is plastered to her face with sweat. She looks as though she might be sick.

“It’s all right,” he says. “It was only a dream. See?” G’raha wipes at her tears with the thumb that is yet flesh and blood. “Just a dream. Everything is all right.”

Her bottom lip trembles as a fresh wave of tears spills forth. Artemesia clutches at his robes, buries her face in his shoulder. Sobs wrack her body as she cries and he can do little else but hold her close.

He dares not ask what it was that frightened her so. Doubts that she could even remember much of it. As she weeps in his arms, he squeezes her tightly against him and wishes, with every onze of strength left to him, that he could save her from her own demons as readily as she has saved him from his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [tumblr](http://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/despommess).


	3. Spectre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This revolves around my SMN Keeper of the Moon Miqo'te, Artemesia Andromeda and follows my previous stories, A Timeless Lullaby and Downpour. If you'd like to see a picture of her I have some [here](https://isaidyoulookshitty.tumblr.com/tagged/artemesia+andromeda).

It had been a rather long day of mercantile negotiations with guild leaders from Eulmore. With the threat of the Flood no longer looming over them, trade opportunities arose in abundance. There were routes to be mapped out, partnerships to be fostered, and agreements to be put into writing. An extended stay in the city was in order, something he was ashamed to admit he had been actively putting off.

On the best of days, the Exarch tended to stand out in a crowd. In Eulmore he stuck out like a sore thumb amongst finely dressed, gentle-mannered aristocrats. And with the Warrior of Darkness ever at his side, whispers followed in their wake. He had invited (read: _ begged _ ) her to join him on this trip, as there were few whose judgement he trusted more than her own and he anticipated her presence would incentivize many Eulmoran bureaucrats to be on their _ best behavior_. One does not drop Lightwardens and Ascians like so many buzzing insects without garnering more than a little hushed respect.

Their day had consisted mostly of meetings and introductions as they were led through the city. Old trade doctrines were dissected from official records while new charters were written up over much discussion. Representatives from Eulmore and the Crystarium alike shared their experiences, their expectations and plans. While G’raha Tia could recognize that his presence was essential, was symbolic in the founding of amity between their two cities, he was not a merchant. He answered when spoken to, offered his own thoughts on matters up for discussion, but for the most part he merely listened. Artemesia herself hardly spoke through their appointments, and when asked how she fared during the negotiations, she’d given him a wry smile.

“If my time in Ishgard has taught me anything, it is to never underestimate the effectiveness of a smile and a nod.”

He’d chuckled at that.

Their hosts, the Chais, has been only too glad to receive them for the duration of their stay, so much so that they insisted upon a formal dinner party for their first night in the city. Thancred and Ryne, who happened to be visiting at the same time, had received invitations themselves. Initially Thancred had balked, insisting he’d had his fill of banquets some years ago. When Artemesia had seen the small, disappointed look upon Ryne’s face, however, she offered her own services as an escort. She cornered him late that afternoon in the Chais’ guest parlor as they all took tea together.

“Alphinaud and I can keep her company well enough if you do not feel inclined to join us.”

“I should think not. Besides, you haven’t any party clothes here to wear, have you, Ryne?”

“I don’t,” the girl said quietly, eyes drifting to the floor.

At that, Artemesia stood, her hands squarely upon her hips. “And I suppose all the dressmakers in Eulmore vanished with the Flood?” She held her hand out to Thancred. “Your _ coin purse_, if you please, master Waters.”

Thancred glared at her, knowing he was defeated. He relinquished his funds, grumbling all the while. Her tea was abandoned and she hastily left to make for the city’s financial district with Ryne eager in tow. G’raha smiles behind the rim of his teacup, making a show of leafing through the documents he’d brought to peruse.

“She is as bad as Urianger when it comes to spoiling that girl,” Thancred mutters, then fixes the Exarch with exasperated eyes. “My deepest sympathies, should the two of you ever decide upon children of your own.”

G’raha, who had been mid-sip, chokes. He sputters into his cup and tries to hide his reddening cheeks. He does not miss the amused expression on Alphinaud’s face.

“Oh dear,” the boy chides. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, thank you.” He clears his throat, thoroughly flustered.

Dinner was, to be frank, _ long_. There were twelve courses in all, each one delicious and accompanied by an astonishing amount of alcohol. G’raha and Artemesia alternated turns in spiriting away any glass of wine that strayed too close to Ryne’s place at the table, dutifully replenishing her cup with chilled, sparkling water. Alphinaud, by now familiar with many of the city’s most affluent figures, was only too happy to make introductions and spur on their conversations. The affair was grand and the Chais spared no expense in making their guests feel welcome.

By the time they bid goodnight to Alphinaud, return Ryne to a relieved Thancred, and make their way back to their personal rooms it is rapidly approaching the midnight hour. Artemesia groans audibly as she opens the door. G’raha fights back a yawn as he sits down to the writing desk, eyes blearily roving over the scattered documents.

“I am exhausted,” his warrior breathes from the other side of the room. “One more course and I might very well have ended up with my face in my plate.”

“I’m sure I would have been close behind.” The next yawn is not so easy to stave off. His chin finds its way into his palm as he leans over the desk. There is the gentle sound of footsteps crossing the room. Artemesia’s fingers snake down past the collar of his robes. G’raha moans quietly as they dig into the knots crawling up the back of his neck. Heavy lids slide over bright red eyes as his mind goes blessedly blank. The touch is sweet, intimate, and most welcome.

“How are you?” she asks, concern painting her words tender.

“Fatigued,” he answers honestly. “I… was not expecting to feel so drained after only one day this far from the Tower.”

Her other hand finds his shoulder, arms winding around his neck as she leans into the chair. When she next speaks, her breath breaks over his skin. “We don’t have to stay. Glynard is capable enough to continue negotiations here in your stead, and I’m positive no one would object if you needed to return ahead of schedule.”

He turns his head. Her hair is soft against his cheek, fragrant with gifted perfume and fresh flowers. He breathes her in. “I appreciate your concern,” he murmurs. “And I thank you for accompanying me. Your presence here bolsters my spirits more than you realize.” She kisses his temple in response. He smiles. “Let us see where we stand after a proper night’s rest and then we can make decisions from there.”

“I’ll not object to that.”

Artemesia straightens up to stretch tired muscles, arms reaching far above her head. He turns in his chair, stands to follow her. Their canopied monstrosity of a bed sits, unnervingly, in the center of the room. The bedding had been turned down while they were at dinner and, while still far too opulent for either of their tastes, the down comforter and decadent pillows look more and more inviting with each passing second they spend awake.

He helps Artemesia with the clasps at the back of her own robes. The garment was modest and elegant, conservatively embroidered and dyed the deep violet she favored. It pooled around her bare feet as it fell away. The sight of her naked in the candle light still halts his breath, still smolders low in his belly, but the lack of motivation to truly touch her only serves as a testament to how _ tired _ he is. She pulls on the silk, frilly pajamas she finds in the chest of drawers and he himself dresses for bed in drowsy silence.

She does not even bother to wipe away the subtle makeup she’d worn for dinner before crawling into bed. By the time G’raha manages to cross the marble floor to join her, she is long since buried amongst the bed clothes. He pats around the mattress, feeling for her under the plush down comforter. She sighs when he finds her, curling himself soft and lazy at her back. Artemesia pulls his arm over her side and weaves his fingers with her own against her belly.

G’raha Tia knows he falls asleep this way: warm, safe, and calm with her in his arms. The next he wakes cannot be very long after, not with how dark it is outside the balcony to their rooms. Not with how bone-tired he still is. He tries to blink away the fog of sleep, eyelids like sandpaper against his eyes. His ears swivel at the top of his head as he tries to discern just what it was that had woken him.

A quiet, bitten off whimper startles him. Artemesia is no longer lax in his embrace. Her shoulders are tensed, jaw clenching and unclenching where her head sits on the pillow. She looks _ pained _ and as G’raha reaches to brush a stray lock of hair away from her face she makes the sound a second time. Anxiety bubbles up behind his heart, acrid like smoke. G’raha calls her name, as gently as he can, but wherever her dreams have taken her it is far beyond the reach of his voice.

Her sounds grow louder, more distressed, and he knows he has to wake her. That this will not simply pass them by.

“Artemesia, wake up.” He tries to pull her to the waking world with touch, stroking her hair and squeezing her hand tight, but it does little. If anything, he thinks it makes her dream worse. Her brow furrows hard at the brush of his fingers and she lets out a long, creaking groan that chills him to his marrow. It echoes off the marble floors and rings in his ears. “Please wake up, love, I can _ help you _ but you must _ wake up_.”

The groaning ceases, and while her eyes do not open he allows himself to feel relieved for a brief, ignorant second. Any solace he finds is dashed by the thundering sob that next leaves her mouth. Artemesia’s hands curl against her throat and G’raha watches, horrified, as she sinks her nails into the delicate skin and _ drags them down_. They leave angry red marks in their wake. He jostles her shoulder, panicking, as she continues to howl into the night. It does not deter the anguished trails her trembling fingers dig into her neck.

“No!” he hisses, and grabs at her wrists, brings her bone white knuckles to his lips. She twists against his hold and it takes all the strength he can muster within his exhausted body to hang on. Tears well in his tired eyes as he watches her recoil from him, and while he knows better than to feel hurt his heart _ breaks _ for her.

Whatever she sees in this nightmare, it is far worse than the previous one he’d pulled her from. The sounds of her cries stings almost as much as the sight of the gouges in her neck, and, at a loss for what else to do, he pulls her close against him. He wraps his arms tight around her, pleading with her to wake.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to her through his tears. “Whatever you see, whatever it is that torments you, I would give anything to take it from you, my love. _ Please_, wake up. Please, Artemesia!”

A great, gasping breath, raw and brutal in her lungs, and her eyes finally, _ finally _ open. She is soaked with sweat, her body shaking violently against his own. G’raha sobs with relief. He lays kisses on her cheek with trembling lips.

“I’m sorry,” she weeps into his nightshirt. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He shakes his head. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” She buries her face into his neck, ears flat against her skull. Gods, he’s never seen her _ shake _ so. “It was only a dream. Whatever it is that frightened you so, I promise you it is not here.”

There is a knock at the door, rapid and insistent. It startles her in his arms. G’raha huffs a teary sigh. Pinches the bridge of his nose as he tries to gather himself. The thought of leaving her all but tears him to pieces. There are voices in the hallway, harsh whispers that meet his ears like blows.

“I…” He stumbles his words, knows not what to say. His eyes dart between her and the door, and when he moves to stand the way she claws after him leaves a wound upon his heart.

At the other side of the door stands a frantic Alphinaud, shadowed by Thancred. “What’s happened?” the boy demands. “Is she all right?”

“A nightmare,” G’raha answers him, voice strained. He realizes he has forgotten to wipe the tears from his face. “I don’t—”

Alphinaud does not wait for the rest of his words. Silently, he slips past G’raha and lets himself into the room. His slippered feet pad quietly across the marble as he makes for Artemesia.

“Alphinaud!” Thancred calls indignantly after him. “You can’t—”

“Tea, and a bottle of whiskey,” he says over his shoulder. G’raha watches, stunned, as he kneels down in front of her. Cradles her face in his hands. He says something to her, quiet so the rest of them cannot hear, and G’raha sees her nod. He turns to Thancred, admittedly at a loss for what to do.

“... To the kitchens with us then, I think.”

He follows Thancred through the darkened halls. The night air is chilled on his skin, and he wishes he had thought to pull on a dressing gown. His feet are heavy as he walks, and the sound of Thancred’s voice makes him jump.

“Have the dreams been bad?”

“I…” He scrubs at his face, trying to put his thoughts in order. “There was only one other time, but yes. A few weeks ago in the tower I had to wake her. She was screaming. She would not, perhaps _ could _ not tell me what she saw.”

The kitchens are empty at this time of night. He is glad for the chance to busy his hands and sets about to make a pot of tea. Chamomile. Thancred pilfers through the cupboards until he happens upon a bottle of very fine, very expensive whiskey. He leans against the counter and watches G’raha, taking a swig directly from the mouth of the bottle.

“Directly after the banquet in Ul’dah,” he says, grimacing, “and all the… trouble that followed, she started having them. Alphinaud tells me there was a period of several weeks she insisted he and Tataru sleep in the same room as her. I imagine there was many a night he spent in the wake of her nightmares himself.”

The tea steeps. G’raha thinks on the way Alphinaud had rushed to her, the surety with which he’d called for whiskey and tea. As though this were not the first night he had been awakened to the sound of his friend’s screams. He opens cupboards in search of mugs, careful to close them quietly. Once the tea is strong enough, he pours a cup and adds two lumps of sugar. The spoon clinks softly against the ceramic as he stirs.

The mug is warm in his hands. He keeps a firm hold of it in an attempt to keep from spilling any. As they traverse the hallways to make their way back, a timid Ryne peeks out from behind her bedroom door. “Is everything all right?” she asks in a small voice. Thancred gives her a comforting look and smoothes his hand over the top of her head.

“Everything is fine,” he reassures her. “Our friend was simply having a nightmare.”

“I heard her screaming.” Ryne wraps her arms around herself, as though she were chilled. “Can I help?”

G’raha smiles. “That is kind, but I believe the worst has passed. Thank you, Ryne.”

Thancred squeezes her shoulder. “Go back to sleep.”

She bids them goodnight and the door closes behind her. The two of them continue down the hall and when they return, Alphinaud has pulled the desk chair to the side of the bed. Artemesia lies miserably curled on her side. The tear tracks on her cheeks have long since dried, but her eyes are still dark and heavy when they meet G’raha’s.

“Thank you,” Alphinaud mutters and takes the tea from him. He gulps down nearly a third of it himself before he takes the bottle from Thancred, topping it off with whiskey. Artemesia accepts the mug as it is held out to her. She takes a sip and makes a strained face.

“Too strong,” she mutters, going back for another drink.

Alphinaud nods. “Rather the point, my friend.”

Thancred bids them good evening and makes to crawl into his own bed. He is sure to leave the bottle behind. Alphinaud says long enough to see that the mug is properly emptied. Before he stands, Artemesia hugs him close. She whispers something to him, quiet enough that G’raha cannot hear. The boy merely nods against her shoulder, a soft “Of course,” muffled into her hair.

G’raha follows him to the door. “Thank you,” he says softly.

“‘Tis no trouble.” He smiles sadly. “In all honesty, I don’t believe the dreams have been this bad since… well, since before the death of Lord Zenos. I suppose recent events here in the First must have exacerbated them.”

“I have only ever seen it once before. It was so much harder to wake her this time.”

“It sometimes is, when they are especially severe. I have little advice to offer so far as waking her from these night terrors. In my experience, the most effective means of fighting them back is to simply offer comfort in their wake.”

“The tea,” G’raha murmurs.

“Yes.” Alphinaud’s eyes fall to the floor. A wistful look befalls his face. “My first choice would have been hot chocolate, but it is rather hard to come by in the First. It is better at dulling the bite of the whiskey.”

“I shall keep that in mind.”

“I…” The boy clasps his hands together nervously. “It is not my place to tell you what it is she dreams of. She is my friend, my family, and I would not betray her trust so readily.”

“I understand.”

“Give it time. As painful as it is for us to see her suffer, it does not compare to whatever it is that haunts her.”

With that, he wishes the Exarch good night, slippered feet pattering down the hall. G’raha closes the door behind him. The room is once again calm, silent in the wake of the earlier commotion. Artemesia dozes quietly on the bed, and when G’raha slips in beside her she reaches for him. Her arms wind around his torso. She tucks her head underneath his chin, and he gently strokes his knuckles at her temple.

“I am sorry,” she says again. He closes his eyes, lest more tears burst forth. “I hate to cause you all so much trouble.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, my love. Full glad am I that there were so many here to rush to your aid when you needed it. I… the thought that you might have had to suffer such an ordeal alone—”

She hushes him with a gentle, fleeting kiss. G’raha clutches her close. She tastes of chamomile and spirits, and of exhaustion. When she gives him her eyes, bloodshot and weary as they are, his heart swells. “But I am not alone.”

“No,” he whispers, breathless. “No, I dare say you are not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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